Tag Archives: 15th Century

This painting, in Geneva’s Museum of History and Art, is picked out in their guide booklets as one of the 10 masterpieces of the Museum’s collection. It is truly a charming example of the Northern Renaissance interest in using the familiar to bring Biblical stories to life, as well as that attention to naturalistic detail which is striking in so many of the works of Northern European artists in this period. Originally part of an altarpiece, the scene is painted in oils on panel. The scene depicted is most likely the second of two miracles commonly referred to as the miraculous draught. One evening after Jesus’ resurrection, seven of the Disciples go fishing, and catch nothing. Next morning they try again, and once again have no luck. Jesus, who they do not recognise, calls to them from the shore: ‘Friends, haven’t you any fish?’ Hearing that they haven’t, he instructs them to cast their next on the right side of the boat, and they will find some. They do so, and the net is so full of fish that they can hardly lift it. By this miraculous change of fortune John recognises Jesus, and Peter jumps into the water to meet him. The exact number of fish caught is listed as 153, but Witz wisely does not seem to have troubled himself to paint every single one, the gist of the story being much the same whatever the number. He has however carefully chosen to illustrate other identifying aspects of the story: the seven disciples, the net being cast on the right side of the boat, and the dramatic moment when Peter jumps in to meet Jesus, arms outstretched and face bearing an expression of awe.

During this period it was becoming typical for artists to relocate Biblical narratives to local setting. Here Lac Leman stands in for the Sea of Galilee, the mountains in the background recognisable to his viewers. There is some debate as to why this became so popular, but it is easy to see that this gives the images a relatability and an immediacy which would be appealing to viewers. Rather than being distant, geographically and historically, the figures are given contemporary clothing, and situated such that the viewer would almost feel it was a scene they had stumbled upon in their own neighbourhood. In the fifteenth century there was a new focus on the individual’s personal role in securing their religious well-being. Individual prayer become more important, and people were taught to truly engage with religious stories and ideas, rather than being passive receptors of preaching. The rise of the Book of Hours is testament to this, as are the growth of spiritual groups of lay people. This was reflected in the art that was popular in this period, such as the new trend for depicting the Madonna and Child in an average, Netherlandish home. However, as we see here, it could also be seen in landscape settings. The Mountains, the Swiss Flag (already in use, but not of course to represent exactly the same area), the familiar architecture, and the scenes of mercantile activity on the right, all help to position this as a contemporary scene, aiding the viewer’s understanding of and engagement with the Biblical story.

It is not only in what he has chosen to depict that Witz shows us an interest in realism. His attention to accurately depicting smaller details suggest a desire to create a naturalistic image. You get a real sense that he is painting based on observation of the real world. For instance, there is a clear attempt to depict the odd way in which light distorts our view of Peter’s submerged legs. There is also an impressive understanding of reflection, seen in the buildings on the right, but particularly in the reflections of the Disciples in the water alongside the boat. We see ripples where the oar has left the water, and the small clusters of bubbles suggest where the water flows quickly amongst the rocks of the shore line. One can’t deny that some aspects are more crude (the grass on the shore is quite simplified), and he is not against an artistic flourish, the rippling folds of the first Disciple are more a demonstration of his skill than serving any other function, or fitting how the wind seems to be behaving in the rest of the scene But overall the effect is one of placing us in the scene, and confronting us with the essence of the story, not distracted by unfamiliar details which would pull us out of it. He seems keen to avoid any elements that would break this effect: the halos for instance, are the slightest of touches, more manipulations of light (again with an almost scientific eye for effects) than anything tangible. It is, all-in-all a highly impressive work, pleasing in its realism, but also capturing and embodying the religious preoccupations of its time.

One of the things people assume about you when they learn that you’re an art historian (and one of the things that we jokingly say about ourselves!) is that we make brilliant dinner party conversation. People will throw out their favourite artists (or simply the last one they heard of), and assume that we’re not only familiar with their entire output, but have an insightful and fully-formed opinion on them. But one of the exciting things about art history, whether you choose to officially study it, or simply indulge a passion for it, is discovering new works of art, artists, and even entire movements you’ve never before encountered. But this can be a slightly intimidating experience. It can be difficult to figure your way into a work that feels unfamiliar. There are however a few things that you can look out for to help you find your way into a new work of art which I’ll be exploring in this new series. These suggestions are in no way proscriptive, it’s important that you embrace your own response to the work, but if you’re ever stuck when looking at a new work, these tips might be worth bearing in mind.

Material

The artist’s choice of medium can make a huge difference to the overall effect of the artwork. Often museum labels will help you with this, but it satisfying to be able to identify the materials yourself. Some are really easy to identify, with oil or watercolours perhaps, but this can sometimes be difficult; often the material of sculpture can be hard to pinpoint. But with a little practice you start to gain a familiarity with the materials, and build up a knowledge of what they look like and how they’re used.

Once you have an idea of what the material is, it’s worth thinking about the qualities and constraints of that material. The development of oil painting allowed artists in the Northern Renaissance to create amazingly realistic images, using are fully layered pigments and glazes to bring a vitality to their works unmatched by the frescoes of their Southern cousins. It is thought that these new paints were created in part in response to the damp climate of the North, which made the plaster-based techniques of Italian artists implausible. Centuries later, the vivid colours of the Impressionists were made possible by the development of new, chemical pigments. The bright yellows and blues seen in so many of their works was made possible by these new pigments. Their en plain air techniques were also made possible by the invention of tubes of paint, making the materials far more portable.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Pont Neuf, 1872

Sculpture is perhaps even more dependent on its materials. The physical qualities are of key importance, having a fundamental effect on what one would be able to sculpt. The poor tensile strength of marble is the reason why so many sculptures are supported by ugly props, with bars of the material holding up their arms or legs. This is why so many Greek gods are leaning against a conveniently positioned tree trunk. The opposite quality enables the fantastical creations of the sixteenth century, such as Giambologna’s Mercury (which positively flaunts the tensile strength of bronze with its outstretched limbs.

Giambologna, Mercury, 1580

The sculpture’s material isn’t just of interest form the point of view of its physical qualities. Many materials also take on a symbolic quality, or accrue connotations that can impact on the meaning of the finished work. In his seminal work The Limewood Sculptors of Renaissance Germany, Michael Baxandall explored the way in which cultural associations about limewood came to be attached to the sculptures that were carved from it. The special, pseudo-magical qualities that folklore attached to the tree itself impacted on how the sculptures were understood by contemporary viewers. This book also contains Baxandall’s examination of the different woods on a cellular level, and the implications of this for the forms it was sculpted into. Far later, modern sculptors such as Henry Moore would lead the ‘truth to materials’ movement, which sought to exploit the inherent qualities of the material to create sculpted forms that somehow reflected the nature of the material itself.

In painting too, materials could gain their own symbolic meanings. The most famous example of this is the use of lapis lazuli in depictions of the Virgin Mary. The high cost of the pigment, due to it being imported all the way from Afghanistan, where it still only occurred in relatively small quantities, meant that it came to be seen as appropriate for depicting this holy figure.

The price of the material is thus also worth considering. While it is obviously often the case that materials are chosen for their expense, they can also be deliberately inexpensive. For instance, Russian Constructivist artists such as Alexander Rodchenko chose cheap, readily available materials such as plywood, in a deliberate attempt to make their art more accessible, and to strip it of the bourgeois connotations of more conventional materials. In other cases, the material may be chosen specifically for such connotations. Mark Quinn’s Alison Lapper Pregnant, created for the Fourth Plinth at Trafalgar Square, made use of Carrara marble (Michelangelo’s David was able made from Carrara marble), placing it in a tradition of nude sculptures dating back through the Renaissance to Roman art, which in turn imitated Greek art. By using this material Quinn makes a bold and positive claim for the beauty and importance of his subject, and forces his viewers to reconsider the negative effects of the bland uniformity of sculpture in the Classical tradition. Quinn himself commented on his choice of material, ‘Marble is the material used to commemorate heroes, and these people seem to me to be a new kind of hero – people who instead of conquering the outside world have conquered their own inner world and gone on to live fulfilled lives. To me, they celebrate the diversity of humanity. Most monuments are commemorating past events; because Alison is pregnant it’s a sculpture about the future possibilities of humanity’.

So there are lots of aspects to the choice of material in artworks. These certainly shouldn’t be treated as a tick-list of things to go through, but thinking about material in this way can offer a new perspective on a work of art, and can be an interesting approach to take when you find yourself in front of a brand new (to you, or the world) work of art.

Over-exposure to this painting as a sixth-former had left me feeling it was at worse dull and a best that there wasn’t much left to say about it. It seemed to be a painting you could analyse with a check-list: classical references, punning reference to family name (the wasps are a possible reference to the Vespucci family, potential patrons of the work), marital context. It was only when I was unexpectedly re-introduced to the painting at university that I recaptured a sense of real excitement about this painting. It now stands as one of my favourite paintings in the National Gallery, an amusing and subtle exploration not only of classical references and intellect, but also of human relations and social expectations.

Painted in egg-tempera and oil on a panel of poplar wood, it is thought to have probably served as part of a piece of furniture in a bedroom, possible of a newly married couple. Though the mostly likely item of furniture used to be identified as a cassone, the chest which held the bride’s trousseau, it is now thought that the painting most likely formed part of a back-rest or spalliera. This may have been part of a cassapanca, a sort of chest-bench, which could function as a cassone, or it could have been part of a daybed. We mustn’t allow our modern assumptions to creep in here – bedrooms were in this period by no means entirely private spaces, and might be used as much as socialising spaces during the day. So we can assume that thought it was placed in a bedroom, the painting’s audience was by no means limited to the occupants of the bed itself.

The story the painting is linked to originates in Homer, that of the illicit affair of Venus and Mars (in Homer they are of course Aphrodite and Ares). Venus, married to the under-appreciated Vulcan, engages in an affair with Mars, the god of War, before they are caught, in the act, by a net crafted by Vulcan. In Homer’s telling they are subjected to the humiliation of being laughed at by the other gods. Though the story certainly doesn’t appeal to the modern sense of humour, and seems rather ominous for a bedroom painting, the central sort of the affair of Venus and Mars took on other connotations. The emphasis on the ability of Love to subdue War, and thus bring about peace, has often been focused on as a positive interpretation of the story.

Botticelli seems to have been keen to cram in as many classical references as possible, on top of the subject matter itself. The choice of the satyrs playing in the background may be a reference to a lost work described by the second-century Greek writer Lucan, which depicted the Marriage of Alexander and Roxana, while cupids played with Alexander’s armour. This demonstrates both Botticelli’s classical knowledge, and puts him on a par with the much admired ancient artists. Venus’ pose may reference an extant classical work of art, the Roman Hermaphrodite sculpture, which was very popular in Florence in the fifteenth century, and was widely copied. This sculpture, male when viewed from one side, female from the other, has a similarly reclining pose, and Venus’ foot in particular seems to reference the pose of the sculpture. However, despite these classical references, there is not a great deal of classical influence in the style of the painting itself. The costumes are contemporary to the time of the painting, they are not archaicising, but would have been recognisably modern to the painting’s audience. Venus’ hair is also like that in many other contemporary portraits. So there in fact seems to be an attempt to position the ancient story in a modern context.

Bernini’s Hermaphrodite, now in the Louvre

This seems to be related to the moral or implications of the story. As we have seen, it has been interpreted in a positive light, as representing the triumph of peace or love over War. However, the painting may also carry more sinister connotations. A slightly risqué interpretation is that it depicts Mars’s ‘little death’, the post-coital state, implied not only by the fact that he is asleep, but by the fact that even the blast from the conch shell cannot awaken him. This mischievous and someone tongue-in-cheek depiction can be seen as an amusing talking (or perhaps not talking) point. It might also be interpreted however as carrying a more serious message. It acts as a warning to the painting’s male audience. Mars has been so seduced, emotionally and physically, by Venus, that it has led him to neglect his duties and his true warrior-like nature. He deeply snoozes while his martial tools are used as play things by the naughty satyrs (who are themselves linked with the sinister activities of the Bacchanal). This might be emphasised by the fact that the scene is set in a dense thicket, while we see a city in the background, perhaps where the Mars figure should be, attending his duties. The tree Mars leans against is also noticeably stunted, with its branches chopped off, with rotten stumps in their place (I would not encourage my readers to interpret this too literally), suggesting a state of ill-health, or lack of attention to good care. The painting thus both acts as a warning to its males viewers, and as an expression of male anxiety in the face of female sexuality and power. Far from a calming and benevolent bringer of peace, this Venus is depicted as, be it through evil design or not, depriving Mars of his ‘manly’ power and sense of responsibility.

This interpretation of the painting is supported by the fact that that other famous Renaissance figure, Machiavelli, was complaining of Florence’s lack of martial prowess in just such terms. He saw it as a deep flaw the Florence was heavily reliant on mercenaries for its self-defence, and complained that Florentine men were no longer capable soldiers. This he blamed in part on their being too interested in sex, and too easily drawn away, by women, from martial concerns. He campaigned for and eventually succeeded in setting up a Florentine militia in an attempt to solve this problem (whether he succeeded in drawing men’s attention away from women is both uncertain, and quite certain).

Artworks in the Italian Renaissance home often served as conversation pieces 0 they were there to be talked about, not just to be looked at. So although we may be drawn to one particularly interpretation, it is likely that the painting was valued in part for tis potential for debate and discussion, and its multiple possible interpretations. We must also remember that it was not necessarily the artist alone who had a say in the content of the painting – the patron might also suggest elements, wither on a broad scale, or down to minor details.

The technique of the painting mixes ‘new’ and ‘old’ styles and methods. While he makes use newer techniques such as aerial perspective and foreshortening (particularly well-executed on Mars’s head), he also makes use of more old-fashioned methods. The figures are all outlined in think black lines, a traditional Florentine technique. This perhaps helps to give the paintings its pleasing sense of clarity. The fine folds of Venus’ robes are wonderful, and the use of think brushstrokes is effective in achieving a sense of translucency, particularly noticeable on her lower leg, and clearly designed to highlight her idealised figure. This is an effect particularly associated with tempera painting. Tempera is made by mixing dry pigments with, usually, egg-yolk. The fine wispy curls of the satrys’ fur where it meets their bald upper bodies also demonstrates this translucent quality. Botticelli has also tipped his head to modern practice by including naturalistic images of real plants, with a variety of small plants growing in the grass on which the figures recline.

So I am glad that I was given the opportunity to take a fresh look at this painting, and reach a new appreciation of it. It is always interesting to look back a familiar material through a new lens, in my case that of considering the gendered implications of such a painting. I hope this post has served to both draw your attention to this fascinating painting, and to spur you to take a new look at an artwork you may have thought you were bored of, but might find much more to interest you in. As ever with artworks, the more you look, the more you find.

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Masaccio’s most famous works are undoubtedly those found in the Brancacci Chapel, in the church of Santa Maria del Carmine, in Florence, and his Holy Trinity, found in the church of Santa Maria Novella, also in Florence. Alongside The Holy Trinity, The Tribute Money, and The Expulsion, have become poster-works for the Italian Renaissance, endlessly discussed (or at least cited), and burned into the memory of anyone who has studied European art history. But for those who can’t make it all the way to Florence, London too holds Masaccio-based delights, in the form of the subject of today’s post, Masaccio’s The Virgin and Child, of 1426.

The large painting (it measures an impressive 135 x 74 cm), would originally have functioned as the central part of an altarpiece. Commissioned for the Chapel of Santa Maria del Carmine, in Pisa, by the Pisan notary Ser Giuliano degli Scarsi, the painting explores the desire to make the Mother and Child both supernatural, and real, human. This leads to a mix of elements that may seem something at odds with one another to the modern viewer, but which express this central Christian belief in the humanity of the Virgin and Child. The figures are on a monumental scale, far larger than the instrument playing and singing angels who surround them. This presents a hierarchy of importance, the larger figures of the Virgin and Child present their far high status. This scale is emphasised by the composition of the painting, with the Virgin and Child raised above us on a throne, making us look up at them reverentially, something that would have been further highlighted by its being mounted in the altarpiece. The use of a gilded background also creates a sense of them being in a special, removed space. There is no attempt to position the throne and its support in a realistically represented space, which may seem to create an odd contrast with the cleverly articulated and perspectivally treated architecture of the throne itself.

However, Masaccio cleverly contrasts these ‘unrealistic’ elements with more naturalistic modes of representation. One aspect of this is his interest in perspective and lighting. The painting has a central vanishing point, with the other elements in the painting arranged according to this single- viewpoint perspective. He has even attempted to present Christ’s halo, a supernatural aspect the nature of which was cause of some debate, in a foreshortened fashion, to accord with this sense of perspective. He uses a strong sense of directional light to model the figures, and draw attention to the gentle folds of the Virgin’s mantle and dress. His understanding of how to use this light is demonstrated by the fact that the shadows are consistent with the direction of the light. The impressive foreshortening of the instruments of the front two angels gives the painting a clearly defined sense of depth, and again adds to the sense of reverence, placing the Virgin and Child just beyond our reach. The architectural elements such as the throne both follow the perspective, and offer a sense of realistic familiarity. The use of Corinthian and composite capitals recreates recognisable architectural details from the city of Pisa itself, giving the viewers a sense that the Virgin and Child are somehow in an Italian setting.

This sense of appealing to the everyday experiences of the painting’s viewers is also carried through to the realistic treatment of the figures themselves. Rather than remaining distant, aloof, or sombre, Masaccio’s Virgin and Christ appear as a real mother and child. Christ, often depicted in Virgin and Child images as blessing, or with a general sense of awareness of his own divine nature, here clutches at the grapes offered him by his mother, and sucks at his fingers (those usually used for blessing), just like a real child. While he is rather large, his plump body and tousled hair recall the features of real babies. This is mirrored by his mother, who carefully cups her hand around him to hold him on her lap, and gently offered his the fruit. But, with the serene but perhaps slightly sad expression, we are shown that she understands the significance of her infant child. We are led to contemplate the undeniable humanity of Christ, an aid to the contemplative religious meditation of the viewer. This awareness of his human nature only serves to make his later self-sacrifice and the events of the Passi0n all the more profound and moving. This human aspect of Christ was increasingly emphasised in religious movements of this period, in the preaching of the Mendicant friars for instance, and in the growth of confraternities, and in the numerous festivals and ceremonies commemorating the Passion across Italy. The angels in this painting almost act as stand-ins for the viewers, they are highly individualized, with different hairstyles for example, and their facial expressions emphasise their individual responses to their religious experiences. They are much like the human worshippers gathered before the altarpiece itself.

This level of human signification is used in tandem, and in some senses responds to, a layer of symbolic meaning. The most obviously symbolic element in the painting is the bunch of grapes. This symbolically recalls the wine of the Eucharist, and thus Christ’s blood, and the Passion itself. This is particularly touching given the childlike behaviour of the Infant, it brings a sense of dramatic irony to the painting, with the viewing seeing the baby foreshadowing the sacrifice of the adult. The emphasis placed on Christ’s fingers, particularly those he playfully chews or sucks, brings to mind the blessing gesture, and with it Christ’s teaching and works prior to the Passion. Thus the child prefigures or foreshadows the life and works of the grown Christ. The words of Mary’s halo are from the Ave Maria, the Hail Mary hymn, thus emphasising the Virgin’s spiritual significance, and connecting her with this image of Christ. Not only is she pictured as the mother of Christ, but the reference to this hymn highlights her intercessional role – the painting’s viewers would be reminded to pray to her to intervene on their behalf in the Court of Heaven. This was one of the main reasons the Cult of the Virgin became so popular, because Mary was thought to have this intercessional power, potentially reducing the time the individual human soul would have to spend in Purgatory, so it is interesting to see how Masaccio has linked these two developing religious tendencies, the humanity of Christ, and the power of the Virgin. To further highlight the Virgin’s importance, Masaccio has used the by then accepted move of using rich blue, made from lapis lazuli, for her mantle. This stone, found in Afghanistan, was hugely expensive, due to its relative rarity and the distance it had to travel, so came to be seen as the appropriate colour for a figure of such high spiritual significance as the Virgin Mary.

So we see in this painting Masaccio bringing together many different elements and contemporary concerns and religious ideas of the society he lived in, tapping into deeply help religious beliefs as well as exploiting new artistic techniques, and tying them together to create a work which appeals to both the human, and the spiritual, in its viewers.

There is an interesting side story to this painting. The payments for it were collected on Masaccio’s behalf by none other than Donatello. He was also working in Pisa at the time, and was friends with Masaccio. It is interesting to be reminded of the extent to which artists were friends, new one another, and even collaborated. It can be tempting to be drawn into the post-Romantic idea of the artist as lone genius, and it is refreshing to be reminded that artistic networks were more fertile, active, and indeed frequent, than we might now imagine.

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My family have been holidaying on the coast of Exmoor every year for nearly a decade now, and we still find new and fascinating things to see and places to visit. One such site is this marvelous church, St Dubricius, in Porlock. We frequently drive through the village or Porlock to get to its even smaller neighbour, the harbour village of Porlock Weir, but it was only on our last trip that we stopped in Porlock itself, with the express purpose of making a visit to this unusually dedicated and oddly-spired church.

St Dubricius was a sixth century Celt, born in the Kingdom of Ergin, and became a highly influential scholar in the areas around Herefordshire, Brecon, and Glamorgan. His Welsh name is Dyffrig, and it was to Wales, and the Cathedral of Llandaff, that his remains were brought on the 23rd May 1120 (he of course died some time earlier!), having lived out his last days as a hermit on the island of Bardsley, where he retired having set up a school at Henlland (Hentland) on the Wye, and a monastic college at Llanfrawthir (Llanwith Major). It might seem odd that this church in Somerset should be dedicated to a saint who spent most of his life in Wales, but it is thought that he may have passed through Porlock on his travels, possibly even founding an earlier incarnation of the current church. Our modern, Rome-centric view of pre-Reformation Christianity also distracts us from the fact that Christianity came to the West Country via Wales, from Ireland, so a Welsh facing, as it were, church is quite understandable, and indeed common in this region.

The most striking quality of the exterior of the church is its bizarrely truncated spire. The majority of the body of the current church dates from some time between 1180 and 1280, but the tower itself may have elements from earlier than this. The spire itself is likely thirteenth century, and is covered with oak shales, giving it a pleasingly Scandinavian feel. The truncation itself is thought to not be by design, but rather the result of damage inflicted by the Great Gale of 1703. This seems to have been left, without any attempt to add a point to the spire again. Considerable work was done to the church in the fifteenth century, which was also when the fine polychrome chapel was added (which I believe was the Harrington Chantry Chapel – see below), a slightly odd decorative addition to the otherwise sturdy and robust façade.

The substantial porch now contains one of a pair of tombs left by the Will of Alive Hensley, in 1527. Carved in nearby Dunster, the tomb in the porch commemorates her and her mother, while the other to the left of the altar, commemorates the burial place of her husband, who, according to the aforementioned will, died in Porlock. These are two of the several noteworthy tombs in the church. The south aisle contains a monument to a knight, likely of the thirteenth century, locally called the ‘Crusader’, due to his cross-footed pose. It is locally thought to represent Sit Simon Fitz-Roges, who died in 1306, and whose family held the manor of Porlock. It has clearly suffered some alterations; the recess in which it sits is probably fourteenth century, and made for a different figure, and in order to fit the knight effigy into it at a later date, he has suffered the indignity of having his feet cut off.

The other tomb, which alone would make the church well worth a visit, commemorates John, 4th Lord Harrington, and his wife Elizabeth Courtenay. This impressive alabaster memorial contains two finely carved figures, of a standard worthy of a cathedral, let alone this small country parish church. In his will Lord Harrington left instructions for a chantry to be set up, with two associated priests. In this pre-Reformation period this was commonplace amongst the aristocracy and those who could afford it. The priests would say masses for the deceased founder’s soul (and any other specified in his will, deceased or still living, probably including past and present members of his family, his children, and such), in order to reduce the soul’s time spent in Purgatory. The founder would have left money not only to pay for the building of the chapel, but also to pay the priests to perform these masses. In some cases this may have involved promising them, say, the rent from certain properties or land, as well as simpler sums of money. The memorial is no longer in its original position, as it would have been in the chantry itself. Nothing was done to act on Harrington’s will until 1474, about three years after the death of his widow Elizabeth. He himself had died in 1417, on expedition in France with Henry V. The monument probably dates from 1474 or thereabouts. The priests were usually chosen from the nearby Cleeve Abbey (on which I will probably write a blog post), and lived in what is at least now called Chantry Cottage, which stands next to the church wall. Though the memorial has lost the polychromy and gilding which would have made it even more spectacular many beautifully carved details remain, including Lord Harrington’s garland of roses and leaves, and the ornate netting of Elizabeth’s hairpiece. The stiff folds of her dress make little attempt to imitate a real lying figure, looking more like the deep flutes of a column, but they pleasingly fold to demonstrate the presence of her pointed feet, in line with the armour clad feet of her husband. Both their heads lie on cushions supported by angels. It is thought that the canopy above them, with its dense tracery patterns, is slightly later in date than the figures themselves, perhaps suggestive of even further delays in the creation of the chantry and its monument.

Other interesting features inside the church include the font, which dates from the fifteenth century reconstruction. Its pattern of tracery, foliate forms and shields is pleasingly proportioned, and it is likely that the shields themselves would have once been painted to contain the arms of locally significant families. The church also contains the remains of an early fifteenth century clock, which was apparently in use until Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897. Without face and hands, it would have struck the tenor bell in the bell tower. The bells are also of note (no pun intended), with a ring of six, the earliest of which dates from 1617. They are rung from a gallery, constructed in 1987, which overlooks the north aisle.

Canopy of the Harrington Memorial

One of the more recent additions to the church is the reredos, sitting behind the altar, dedicated in April, 1931. It contains numerous images, sculpted and painted, of figures and saints connected to the church including, alongside an image of the Resurrection, St Olave, the patron saint of the nearby chapel at Porlock Weir, Alan Bellendon, Bishop of Aberdeen and Chancellor of Aberdeen University, and rector at Porlock between 1642 and 1647, as well as St Petroc, St Cranoc, St Bridget, St Brendon, and of course, St Dubricius himself. It is medievalising in style, looking more like a product of the Arts and Crafts Movement than the 1930s but makes an interesting focal point in the church.

The overall impression of the interior is of it being slightly cluttered, quite full, especially compared to the relative sternness of the exterior. It is however a church full of interest, and it more than repays a visit. I was unfortunately not able to see all of its marvels, as it also contains a Chapel of the High Cross, built as the Parvise Chamber in the fifteenth century, and eventually restored as a chapel in 1985, but it was sadly, on this occasion, locked.

The churchyard also boasts a yew tree, rather stunted and looking slightly worse for wear, claimed to be over 1000 years old. All in all this church lives up to the beautiful and rugged landscape which surrounds the village, and would make a worthy stopping point for anyone finding themselves in this wonderful corner of the West Country.

I am as ever indebted to the compilers of the little guide book available for sale in the church (a rather fine colour-printed affair), for information on the church and its history, the proceeds of which go towards the maintenance of the church. Information about the church and service times can be found here, and the current rector is, I believe, Bill Lemmey.

Created by the Netherlandish painter for Nicholas Rolin, chancellor to the Dukes of Burgundy, in around 1435, this painting can be seen as a classic of iconography, the attempt to understand a painting’s meaning through interpretation of symbols depicted within it, as complicating rather than simplifying the meaning of a work. Van Eyck seems almost to be deliberately defying out attempts at a definitive interpretation of the painting. The painting teaches us an important lesson: the fact that we can’t make a definitive interpretation doesn’t simply mean we don’t know enough, it is highly likely that this complexity was intended, and would have been acknowledged by contemporary audiences as it has been by modern ones.

Rolin served under the Dukes of Burgundy, known throughout Europe for their lavish court, and ammassed a vast fortune, and we can see possible references to this throughout the painting. The vineyards visiblre in the background may be a reference to the fact that some of the finest wine in Burgundy was produced on land belonging to Rolin. We can also see a church, which may reference a number of different churches which Rolin patronised.

Vineyards and a Church visible in the background behind Rolin

Symbols represting the Deadly Sins have been noted in the deocration of the room in which they sit, such as the gluttony of Noah, plac ed above Rolin’s head, which could be another link to his role in wine production. We also see Pride, in the form of the story of Adam and Eve, as well as Envy, represented by the story of Cain and Abel.

Capitals depicting Biblical stories signifying Sins

The rabbits tucked away, crushed, beneath the column behind Rolin may be a reference to the sin of luxuria, or rather the overcoming of such temptations – luxuria was associated with rabbits due to their reputation for fornication.

Interestingly, there was to have been a direct reference to Rolin’s earthly wealth, in the form of a large purse on his belt, but this was painted out of the final piece.

The scene takes place in a loggia or enclosed space, which itself is set within a walled garden. The Virgin is often depicted in such settings, particularly in Annunciation sccenes, so this could suggest that they are occupying a holy space. This type of setting has also been interpreted as a symbol of Mary’s virginity and purity. This was a period when the Immaculate Conception (the idea that St Anne’s conception of Mary was also of divine origin), and Mary’s continued virginity after the birth of Jesus was only recently becoming accepted, and thus it was topical to include symbolic reference to it.

The loggia or enclosed space in which the scene takes place, with low-walled garden behind

An ostensibly obvious symbol is the placing of a crown on Mary’s head by an angel. This signifines her position as Queen of Heaven, again a relatively recent development. Marian devotion, and the Cult of Mary, had developed as an important part of popular piety from the thirteenth century onwards, with increasing emphasis being placed on Mary’s role as intercessor between people and God, in a similar but more powerful role to that taken by saints. Painted depictions of the Mary’s coronation as Queen of Heaven were also popular throughout the late-Medieval and Renaissance period. By depicting her in this position, van Eyck references this aspect pf popular devotion.

The coronation of the Virgin taking place within the painting

The setting is luxurious, with richly decorated capitals, fine floor tiles, and Venetian glass in the windows, and the figures clad in a variety of expensive materials. But the symbols we have seen, such as those representing sins (from which Avarice is notably and likely deliberately absent!) reveal the complex relationship between piety and religious beliefs, and the worldly deire to gain wealth, and to some extent to show it off (something that may have been influenced by Rolin’s having been born into a non-aristocratic, bourgeois family, but working in one of the most luxuious courts in Europe). We see in this painting the delicate working out of these ostensibly opposing desires, and the attempt to reconcile the opposing impressions of wealth and personal piety.

Thus we can see that, while symbols can be of great interest, it would be misguided (no pun intended, given my title!) to assume that they give us all the answers, or even that they make interpreting an art work’s meaning any simpler, in fact, the opposite is often the case. Most importantly, it is likely that the opposite was supposed to be the case.